


When the Full Moon Rises, Give Me Your Love

by pickalily



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Dracula Influence/References, F/M, Horror, Infidelity, Vampires, Victorian, Violence, Zeke is the worst, a (mostly) happy ending, is this real life is this just fantasy, kind of but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickalily/pseuds/pickalily
Summary: Petra Ral: dutiful daughter, woman of the 1800s, and betrothed to the honorable Zeke Jaeger. Levi Ackerman: a centuries-old vampire, a night creature that thirsts for blood, and a frequent visitor of Petra's dreams.
Relationships: Levi/Petra Ral, Petra Ral/Zeke Jaeger
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	When the Full Moon Rises, Give Me Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> I read Bram Stoker's Dracula at the beginning of the month and had the idea to write this. I like the idea of it and how it turned out ^^ I've also read/watched a few other media this month to get the tone right for this (The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Frankenstein, and am currently watching Penny Dreadful), so hopefully you guys like it :)
> 
> The title of this fic is taken from Sunmi's "[Full Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BBF3vRY85M)."

The vampire stands under the lone streetlight, waiting by the courtyard for someone to pass by. It may be that no one shall ever come and he will be forced to wait another night. 

The cold wind blows past and the vampire shivers, pulling his cloak closer against him though it does little to warm him. It has been centuries since he has looked upon his reflection - glass, water, any surface which shines all seem to reflect every detail except for the vampire - but he need not peer into a mirror to know of his current state: thin and gaunt with his eyes sunken into his skull, ashy gray skin pulled thin over the sharp bones of his skeleton, and his lips barely covering the needle-like teeth set into his white gums. 

He can’t recall the last time he’s fed. It would only take a bite of a young passerby - man or maiden, he cares not which - to replenish a bit of his youth, but the humans have become more cautious as of late. Stories of things they don’t understand - men disappearing in the woods, women found as pale as a sheet as if the blood as been sucked out of them, children stolen out of their beds at night - have frightened them into staying in their homes, double-locking their doors so that uninvited creatures cannot enter. The lack of humans going on midnight strolls has made feeding more difficult. The vampire has had to resort to alternative methods to capturing prey, although this method is proving insufficient in providing the vampire with the proper sustenance he needs to live. 

A sigh escapes his lips, but his breath is not even warm enough to produce a cloud of white. It reminds the vampire again just how terribly cold it is. He wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of a human and feel the warmth of their blood fill his mouth and trickle down his throat until it floods his veins. The thought of it makes him hiss hungrily, startling the woman beside him. 

His eyes rest on the frightened woman standing in front of him. He doesn’t know how he had missed her before. Her sweet scent is intoxicating, practically pulling him towards her as it fills his lungs. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to pounce on her right away as she looks up at him with wide amber eyes and cheeks red and rosy. 

The woman studies him carefully, cautious but curious. She holds her hands tightly together at her breast as if to protect herself from whatever harm he might bring her. “You speak as if you know me, but I have no recollection of ever meeting you.” Her lips are a pretty petal pink, the same shade as a fresh rose. 

“It is because I wish to know you,” the vampire answers, “because I have been waiting for you all this time.” He tries not to breathe her in all at once, but her scent is intoxicatingly fragrant. It was like trying to ignore the aroma of a flower garden in full bloom, hopeless and futile, and who was he to let the beauties of nature go unacknowledged? 

She blinks at him, her lashes so long and dark and thick. “Tell me, sir, if this is your dream or mine, for I have never had a dream where I could move and speak so freely but you seem so at ease. It’s as if you’ve been here before.” 

“It is both your dream and mine. It is the place at which dreams can be shared,” he replies. He gestures towards the houses around them. Some windows remain lit while others are dark, their occupants seemingly asleep. “A place for people to escape, but most remain in their houses sleeping, too afraid to wander from the dreams they already know. Very few are as brave of you. Very few dare to venture to this place.” 

He knows not her true reason for coming out here, whether she wishes for an escape or if she simply wandered here unawares. She herself doesn’t explain the reason for her presence. The woman simply fiddles with the golden band around her finger, twisting around and around. 

“And you,” she finally asks. Her words are soft, careful, guarded. “What are you escaping from?” 

He shakes his head. “Not an escape. I came here to search for someone.” He gazes down her, feeling his onyx eyes begin to blaze crimson with desire. His tongue licks at the corner of his scarlet lips. “I came here to wait for you.” 

“For how long?” 

“Forever.” 

It could have been any person, but she had the misfortune of wandering into his path. Now that she’s come, the vampire wants no other. She looks so enticing standing there, the thin fabric of her nightgown doing little to conceal the curves of her silhouette underneath. He can picture himself cupping her cheek in his hand, her warmth burning hot against his icy skin. He could easily make her shiver as he drags his finger slowly against the curve of her face, down her jaw, along her throat as he pulls down the collar of her gown. It would be so simple to plunge his fangs into her neck, drink her in, drain her of her blood. He would leave her with the roses gone from her cheeks, her lips white and no longer filled with color, and she would be as pretty and pale as a porcelain doll. All she would have left from him are two little marks on the side of her neck, bright red against a purple background. All he would have is the memory of her taste on his tongue, sweet and sharp and metallic. 

“Are you cold?” 

The woman’s question reminds him that she still stands before, untouched like the newfallen snow. 

“I am,” he replies. Very cold, but that can soon change. 

The woman looks so much warmer in comparison even though she wears only her nightgown and the vampire wears a velvet cloak over his suit. Despite the harsh autumn wind that blows by, her skin doesn’t break out into gooseflesh. Her teeth don’t chatter. She just stands there, cheeks warm and red as she stares up at him with wonder and something else in her eyes. It almost looks like pity. Nobody has ever looked at him like that before. 

“Shall I warm you?” she asks. “Shall I help you?” 

She should be the one asking for help. She should not be offering to help him, a creature about to devour her. He almost wants to laugh at the irony of it all, but he’s curious about her now. Momentarily, he forgets his hunger and says, “Help me. Warm me.” 

The woman doesn’t move, not at first. She moves cautiously, slowly, but there’s no fear in her eyes as she takes a step towards him, her feet silent against the cobblestone. Her fingers are pretty and pink, palms flush with the same warmth, as she reaches out for him. Her touch is gentle as she cups his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks almost tenderly. “You feel like ice,” she murmurs as her warmth travels across his skin, her touch so hot it’s almost burning. Her doe eyes flicker up to meet his gaze, watching as he shudders at the way her thumbs caress his cheekbones. “Is this alright?” 

He begins to answer, but the words get caught in his throat so he nods instead, eyelashes fluttering as he leans into his touch. He has never known warmth like this, did not know that a human could banish the cold with their gaze or their touch like this woman can. For a moment, he wonders if he can be satisfied by this touch alone. He wants this warmth to blanket him, wants it to consume him, wants it to burn him to ash, but he knows this can never be. The thought of only ever having her touch on his skin is too dissatisfying. He wants more, wants to plunge his teeth into her shoulder and let her fill him with warmth, let her course through his veins, let him take it all until the only thing left of her is an empty shell. 

The vampire puts his hands over hers, but she doesn’t shy away from his touch. His fingers feel frozen even those hers feel like burning fire against him. He steps ever nearer to her, gaze hungry as his eyes glaze over her bright eyes, the pink glow of her cheeks, the alluring way her petal lips are parted ever so slightly. 

“May I?” he asks, his voice hardly a whisper in the silence of the night. 

Her head moves upward but stops midway. “Tell me by what name I may call you.” 

The corner of his lip twitches upward in a wicked smile. “You may call me Levi,” he replies. 

“Petra,” she says before closing her eyes, head tilted upward in invitation. 

He brings her lips to meet his, soft at first and then more aggressively as he sinks into her warmth. A hand moves to cup the back of her head while another wraps itself around the woman’s waist. She gasps when his tongue licks against her lips, parts them so he can slip in between and taste the sparks on her tongue. He swallows down every whimper and every moan and still he wants more. 

The vampire pulls away his gaze traveling from the woman’s face to the collar of her gown. He plays with the lace, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t ask for her invitation, at least not in words. He gives her a simple questioning look and she responds with the slightest nod. He grins, baring his needle-like teeth at her in a frightening smile. She doesn’t even scream when he plunges his fangs into her neck, instead wrapping her arms around him tightly as he drinks her in. 

* * *

The morning that Zeke visits his lover, he finds her dozing by the window, a knitted scarf dangling unfinished off her needles. She doesn’t stir when he enters, not even when he shuts the door behind him, so he takes the time to admire her in all her sleeping beauty. Her expression is so soft in slumber, pale pink lips parted as she takes shallow breaths. The sunlight from the window hits her snowy skin, turning it gold. Wisps of ginger hair hang in her face and Zeke smiles tenderly as he reaches out to brush them away from her face and behind her ear. At his touch, her eyes flutter open and she blinks at him sleepily. 

“Zeke?” she mumbles drowsily. She sits up to give him space to sit beside her, pulling at the skirt of her gown so that it doesn’t get in the way. Although not completely awake, she still manages to give him an apologetic smile. “I hadn’t realized you were coming. I would have made you a cup of tea if I had known.” 

“There is no need to apologize,” Zeke assures her as he seats himself at her side. “I should be the one apologizing to you for having disturbed you while you slept so prettily. Your father mentioned that you were dozing off earlier today, but I insisted on coming in anyway. Perhaps I should have come another day?” 

She looks down as she flushes, although the color is nowhere near as dark and red as it usually is. “I had hoped my father wouldn’t say such unnecessary things,” Petra says with a sigh. She folds up her knitting, placing it on the end table, and turns to Zeke with a pleasant smile on her face. “I assure you that I’m fine. He just worries about me too much the way fathers do about their daughters.” 

Upon closer inspection, Petra’s skin isn’t just pale, Zeke finds, but an unnatural white as if she’s made of porcelain. Usually so bright, cheeks flushing happily whenever she sees him, Petra looks drained of color save for the warm ginger of her hair and the circles of gray under her eyes. She looks unwell even though she claims otherwise. 

“Have you been sleeping well?” he asks, reaching out to brush her hair. “You look tired.” 

“Perhaps because I have just woken up,” she replies, but she reaches up to rub at her eyes and wrinkles her nose as she struggles to suppress a yawn. She sees Zeke studying her and she smiles again. “I did sleep well, better than most nights even. Although my dream was strange … I did sleep the whole night …” 

“A strange dream?” asks Zeke curiously. He leans forward, his hand rubbing his chin. “What was it about?” 

Her brow furrows as she tries to remember. “I can’t recall,” she murmurs. She fiddles with the golden band around her finger, twisting it and turning it as she purses her lips. “There was a gentleman with a dark cloak, thick and soft like it was made of velvet. He was standing under a streetlight by the courtyard in the middle of town, but it was so dark out. I don’t think anybody else was around except for him.” 

“Now what would a gentleman like that be doing so late at night?” muses Zeke, more amused than intrigued. 

“I’m not sure. Something strange. He said something I don’t quite understand, something I can’t quite remember,” Petra says, still twisting her ring. “And he had such a thick coat on but - oh! - he was so cold. I remember touching his skin and he felt like ice underneath my fingers.” She shivers as she recalls, as if she can still feel just how strangely cold the man was. She’s so earnest in her recollection that Zeke can’t help but laugh. 

“What a strange fellow,” he says with a chuckle. He leans towards her, grinning like a wolf. “And did you perhaps lend him your scarf to warm him up?” 

Her eyes flicker with something that Zeke doesn’t recognize - anger or maybe annoyance - but he believes himself mistaken because he can’t imagine Petra ever wearing such an ugly emotion on her face. He blinks and there she is, docile and sweet as she always is, wearing a worried frown on her face. “No, it’s just strange,” she says quietly. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that hangs between them. Zeke does nothing but stare at Petra as she fidgets, shifting from side to side as she plays with her ring. 

“Are you angry with me?” Zeke asks. He puts a gentle finger under her chin, lifting her head towards him so that he might see her face. He smiles when she avoids his gaze, instead biting down on her lip and looking at the floral pattern of the lounge. “Do not be angry with me, love. I only ever tease you with affection.” 

“I know,” Petra mumbles, still averting her gaze. 

“Someone as beautiful as yourself shouldn’t be having strange dreams about mysterious men,” Zeke says to her soothingly. It amuses him further when he sees her frown deepen and he smooths a hand over her hair, twirling a lock of her ginger hair between his fingers. “Your thoughts should be filled with things as beautiful as yourself.” 

“Is your mind only ever occupied with handsome thoughts?” asks Petra. It’s unlike her to make such a joke, especially while wearing such a stoic face, but her fiance laughs anyway. 

“Of course not, but you and I are different.” He makes a gesture, something like a wave between her and him as if showing the distinction between the two, but Petra’s face still remains as stony and unfeeling. She must be far more tired than he had thought. Cupping her face in his hands, he brings her close to press a kiss against his lover’s forehead. “Perhaps you should preoccupy yourself with more wholesome things than think about such horrid nightmares.” 

“Wasn’t horrid,” Petra says under her breath, but Zeke chooses to ignore her. She turns her face away from him and collects her knitting, putting it in her lap and unraveling the yarn instead of working on her stitches. After a moment, she says, “I was thinking of picking up typing.” 

Zeke leans with his arm on the back of the chaise, cheek in hand as he looks at his betrothed. “Typing?” he repeats, his eyebrow quirked upward. “Why? Are you not satisfied with writing? You have been learning shorthand for the past year. Learning how to type seems excessive.” 

She fiddles with her half-made scarf, undoing some of her stitches from the last row even though there aren’t any flaws that Zeke can see. “I thought it would be useful,” she says, still not looking him in the eye. “My father’s eyesight isn’t nearly as good as it once was and it’s difficult for him to read the handwriting of others at times. Typing them out might make his letters easier for him to read.” 

“Then we should hire someone to type his letters for him,” Zeke suggests. 

“But I’d like to learn,” Petra says earnestly. Her lower lip protrudes the way it does when she really desires something, although Zeke doesn’t know why she desires to do such needlessly tedious work. “I like to learn. It would keep me occupied.” 

“Is learning how to stitch new patterns not stimulating enough?” Zeke reaches out and touches the scarf in Petra’s laugh, his thumb rubbing the ribbed pattern. “You’ve gotten quite good at knitting.” 

“There are only so many coasters and scarves that I can make,” Petra says with a sigh. 

“But you make them so beautifully,” Zeke hums as he plays with her hair, running his fingers through it and watching as the silky locks slip between them. “They’re even more special because they were made by your hand.” He brushes his lover’s hair behind her ear, eyes trailing down the curve of face to the elegant length of her throat until he notices two curious marks he hadn’t seen before. They’re so small that he might not have noticed them at all if they weren’t so dark and red against the white of her skin. With his thumb, he reaches out to stroke over the marks to make sure they aren’t just a figment of his imagination, but he feels the indents in her skin as he brushes over them and frowns. 

“Ah!” Petra flinches away from his touch, her hand flying up to cover - perhaps unintentionally - the marks on her neck that Zeke had been inspecting. “What are you doing?” 

“You have these … marks on your neck,” Zeke explains as he reaches up to pry her fingers away from her neck so that he can see them again properly. He rubs at them again, but they still remain a blight on her skin. “Where did you get these, love?” 

She tries to fight against the hold he has on her hand but gives up, her hand falling limp in his. “I don’t know,” Petra whispers so quietly that he nearly misses her words. “I think I might have pricked myself with my needle while I was practicing my embroidery, perhaps.” 

“Unfortunate,” Zeke says with a cluck of his tongue. He rubs at the marks once more, but the blemishes remain. Sighing, he brushes the back of his fingers against the curve of Petra’s cheek. “Do be careful, dear. I hate to see you with such unsightly imperfections marring your beauty.” 

Petra doesn’t respond, only nods her head to acknowledge his words. 

She must be more tired than he had thought if she isn’t even speaking anymore, Zeke decides. He spends a little more time stroking her hair, observing the dark circles under her eyes and the way her pale fingers twist, twist, twist her golden band. After a moment, he leans forward to press a kiss against Petra’s forehead. 

“Let me get you a cup of chamomile tea. Perhaps it will banish those terrible dreams from your head.” 

She says nothing in response. 

* * *

Levi doesn’t expect to see her after the last night, but he finds her wandering towards the same streetlight he waits under two hours after midnight. The woman with the ginger doesn’t so much wander towards him as much as she walks towards him determinedly as if she had been searching for him, as if she had come to meet him. The thought of it lights a flame in his belly and he licks his lips, the phantom taste of her still sweet on his tongue, as she approaches. 

“Have you come back?” he asks, wondering if the woman can hear the tremor in his voice. “I didn’t think you would return.” 

“Why so?” Petra asks. She looks paler now than she did that night. Her cheeks are more hollow, her cheekbones protruding more than they had before, her skin is a frighteningly pale shade that nearly matches the vampire’s, and yet her amber eyes shine brightly as she gazes back at him. “Should I not have come? Did you wish to never see me again?” 

Levi hisses at the thought. In all his time, he can’t recall ever seeing his prey after the initial meeting, and he’s unsure why this woman seems to be the exception. All he knows is that he never felt so much warmth until he was wrapped in her arms, had his mouth against hers, had her flowing through his veins, and that he didn’t want to return to an existence without it. He wasn’t sure he knew how. And so he pulled away that night at the very last moment. It was pure torture, depriving himself of the last few drops of her blood, and he held onto the blind hope that she would soon return to him so that he might feel such comfort in her heat once more. 

And return she had, thinner and paler than she was when Levi had first laid eyes on her, but no less desirable in his eyes. 

“No, not at all,” he replies hastily with a shake of his head. His voice is hoarse, his throat dry, and he wants nothing more than to quench his thirst. “I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.” 

Her eyes soften at his words and she lowers her gaze, staring down at her hands where she fiddles again with the band around her finger. “You said before that this was a dream, and yet I feel more awake now than I ever do in the day. It’s so strange.” 

“Do you find this dream more pleasant than your reality?” 

Petra’s eyes flicker upward, warm amber to meet the vampire’s icy blue gaze. “Yes,” she says quietly, her hushed answer seeming to echo across the cobblestone streets. Still, the people remain tucked safely away in their houses, ignorant of what takes place just outside their walls. 

“Then you should return as often as you’d like.” 

“Will you be here always?” she asks with eyes wide and for the first time she looks afraid, although Levi knows not what answer will frighten her the most. 

“I will be here always, so long as you wish to return,” he says in reply, noticing the little sigh of relief that escapes her lips. No longer frightened, she stands relaxed beside him underneath the streetlight and he asks curiously, “But what reality are you escaping from that you find it more comforting to be at my side?” 

She averts her gaze, sucking on her bottom lip as she stares at her bare feet on the stony path. After a moment, Petra looks up at him through her eyelashes. “Why would I not find your presence comforting? You are the lone figure in the night that keeps me company in this strange dreamland.” 

It is the kind of answer that Levi expects, one that should be enough to satisfy him, but he doesn’t believe in her one bit. She’s not that naive. 

“You’re not that stupid,” he replies. He brings his hand to her neck, the tips of his fingers brushing against the tiny pinpricks that mark her neck. The bloom of purple bruises that surrounded them last night are gone, but the scarlet red where he had bitten her still remain. “You know what I am. You know how dangerous I am.” He presses against the little marks against her neck with his thumb, taking care not to dig his nail into her skin but putting enough pressure to make the woman flinch just the slightest bit. 

“Because I don’t find you that frightening, dangerous as you are,” she replies. She reaches up to grab his wrist, her grip firm. “Stop, please.” 

At her request, the vampire’s hand falls limp at his side, Petra’s hand still wrapped around his wrist. 

“There are others out there that scare me more,” she replies with eyes that burn with something akin to anger, outrage, _hate_. It makes her amber eyes flicker with a crimson glow. Levi doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful. 

“What could be more frightening than a creature of the night?” he asks, for he does not know the answer. He fears neither the night nor the unknown because he is one with them, basking in darkness and mystery while humans feared the night so much that they created fire to ward it away. Even the sun, which burns his skin, does not frighten him nor do his other weaknesses — wooden stakes, cloves of garlic, and golden crosses — because being wary is enough and he has avoided them long enough to live centuries. There isn’t anything for him to be afraid of anymore. 

“Words like a trap that bind you, making you a doll,” Petra tells him, her gaze faraway as if remembering something else. She swallows hard as she continues, her voice growing louder with every word she speaks. “Words that keep you in your glass cage, safe and pretty and protected, until your dying days. Words that will keep you prisoner for as long as you live.” She looks at him once more, eyes blazing with a blood-red fury. 

“How can that be so when you’re so difficult to define?” Levi wonders aloud. 

The vampire cannot imagine how Petra can find words so restricting when the woman before him is so many things when there are too few words in the world to describe her. Levi could go about describing her every feature — how her ginger hair falls so elegantly against the curve of her cheek, the way her amber eyes can burn like a raging fire or a comforting flame, or how she sighs so beautifully when she comes apart in his arms — but he could never fully express how this culmination of features can create such an ineffably wondrous being. He’s not even foolish enough to try.

Slowly, a smile spreads across Petra’s face and it looks absolutely ethereal. 

* * *

Zeke notices a strange change in Petra over the course of the week. If she had been pale and sickly before, it’s nothing compared to how she is now. The soft curves of her face are gone, replaced with the sharp bones of her cheek and jaw and chin jutting out. All color is drained from her face except for the warm amber of her eyes, but even that seems to have dulled as of late. With how bony she is, Petra’s eyes look enormous, protruding frighteningly like the glass eyes of a doll. Her hair, once bouncy and shining and bright, hangs limply against her face. The two strange marks on her neck are still there, even more red and prominent against her skin than they were before, although she always insists that they’re nothing whenever Zeke asks. For the past few days, Zeke has only visited her for an hour at a time, cutting his usual lengthy visits short to allow her to rest. Today, she remains in bed, her father explaining that she was far too exhausted to even walk downstairs. 

He feels so wretched sitting at Petra’s side unable to do anything to help her. He reaches out to take her hand, noting how bony it has become in the last few days. His love hadn’t even complained about it once, instead enduring it like the sweet saint she is. He holds her hand in his, afraid to even squeeze it too tightly in fear that he might somehow break her. It’s heartbreaking how large his hand is in comparison. 

“My love, it pains me to see you like this,” Zeke says, his voice barely a whisper. “You look nothing like how you did before. You’ve wasted away as of late and I can hardly stand to see it. Why has your father not sent for a doctor yet?” 

If Petra had more strength, perhaps she might have sat up against her pillows to argue, but in her current state she can only lie down and glance at him tiredly. “Do you think a man such as my father would not send for a doctor to ensure the health and safety of his most precious daughter? Of course he has sent for one. He has sent for many, and yet they cannot find anything wrong with me at all,” she replies. She almost sounds as if she’s angry, but her current state might be affecting her in more ways than one, Zeke reasons, so he tries to be patient with her. 

“Then I shall send for you a better doctor, one that will be able to cure you of whatever strange disease has befallen you,” he says earnestly, clutching her hand with both hands now. He’s practically on his knees for her, and it only shocks him when he sees a flash of what seems like annoyance flicker across her face. 

“All the doctors that have seen me are convinced that I am perfectly healthy, but they find that I’m lacking in blood and sleep,” she tells him. Petra begins to play with her ring as she usually does, but the band slides around her finger more easily than it did the day before. She doesn’t lift her chin, but her gaze flickers up at Zeke. “But I sleep well, perhaps better than I ever have before.” 

“The doctors have said you lack sleep, so why would you argue with them?” Zeke scoffs, ignoring the way she flinches at his harsh tone. “You need a medicine of some kind, something to help you rest at the very least.” He wrings his hands together. “Your father said you were prescribed some laudanum for your insomnia. Have you been taking it?” 

The corners of her mouth twitch, trying its best to keep from turning into a frown. Petra’s nose wrinkles in something like disgust. “I don’t like what it does to me,” she mumbles as she grabs her blankets, scrunching them in her hands. “It’s _awful_ , the way it makes me feel. Do you know what it’s like to dream without sleep? I’d rather be without it.” 

“If it weren’t for the medicine, you wouldn’t be sleeping at all!” Zeke protests, but Petra shakes her head. 

“I do dream. I dream so vividly. I dream as if I’m awake and …” Petra begins but stops mid-sentence, her mouth clamped shut as if she’s said too much. She’s fumbling with her ring again, slipping it on and off her finger. 

“What dreams are you having to have you waste away like this?” Zeke asks, practically pleading. He grabs onto her hand, his grip so tight that his betrothed winces as she tries to break free from his grip. “Tell me, for I’m going mad with worry and I want nothing more than to help the woman I love.” 

“It’s nothing, it’s _nothing_ ,” she insists, still trying to wrench her hand away from Zeke. Perhaps if she were healthier, Petra would have had the strength to break free from his grip, but she can only tug helplessly, whimpering as her fiancé’s fingers press bruises into her skin. When she realizes that he will not be satisfied until he receives an answer, Petra swallows with great difficulty before saying in the meekest voice, “It’s just the man … the one I’ve told you about before. The one I see in my dreams.” 

Zeke does recall that man, if only vaguely. Petra had mentioned him a few times after that first time, but Zeke had always laughed and waved the idea of the strange man away with a hand. He didn’t think that a figment of Petra’s imagination would be so troublesome, believing it to be something as frivolous as a child’s imaginary friend, but it seems his betrothed is more affected by a fantasy than he thought she would be. To think that a woman as sensible as Petra would be so heavily influenced by a make-believe person that her own health would decline! It makes Zeke’s blood boil. 

“You’ll take the laudanum,” he tells her, voice like steel. He tightens his grip on her hand, tugging Petra forward so that she has no choice but to look up at him. He doesn’t let go even when Petra’s eyes widen or when he hears a muffled cry begin to escape her throat. “You’ll take the laudanum and stop dreaming such silly, useless things. The fact that you’d risk your health to dream about someone who doesn’t even exist despite worrying both your father and me is _not_ who you are. You’re more sensible than that, Petra, aren’t you?” 

Her bottom lip trembles as she stares back at him, tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. With much reluctance, she finally responds, “I’ll take the laudanum.” 

“Good girl.” Zeke finally lets go and glances down at her hand. He makes a surprised noise when he looks down at Petra’s hand as if he just noticed the purple bruises on her hand, as if they aren’t the same size and shape of his own hands, as if he wasn’t the one who made them in the first place. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly as he reaches for her hand once more, his touch gentle this time. He strokes the purple ever so tenderly. “Look at this. It doesn’t suit you. Not at all.” 

He doesn’t see Petra bite her tongue. He doesn’t see her eyes blaze with absolute loathing even as he murmurs his most sincere apologies. 

“Let me fetch you a cup of tea before I leave you. Maybe some peppermint or would you prefer chamomile?” He gets up, tugging his clothes to get rid of the wrinkles. When Petra doesn’t answer, he looks over at her, mistaking her wary expression for tiredness. “Or should I let you rest?” 

Petra sinks further into her pillows, the smallest of sighs escape her lips. “Do what you’d like,” she answers. 

* * *

Levi doesn’t see Petra the next night or the night after that. He waits for her at the same streetlight every night only for her not to appear again and again. Her absence disappoints him, but it would be foolish to say her disappearance was unexpected. She had said before that she had known who — or, rather, _what_ — he was and that it didn’t frighten her, but perhaps she had changed her mind. Levi couldn’t blame her. By the seventh night, Levi was seeking out other prey to eat. As much as he knew that no other could satiate him the way Petra had, he would rather eat _something_ than die of starvation. As he stalks the streets looking for lost lonely souls that had wandered out of their dreams, he passes by the same streetlight to find a familiar figure with their head hung, their arms wrapped tightly around them as they stand barefoot under the light. 

For a moment, he thinks he’s gone mad. After so many nights of not seeing her, Levi was certain that Petra would never return. He blinks once, twice, but the figure remains. Cautiously, he approaches, his hand reaching out tentatively to touch her shoulder. At his touch, the woman raises her head and, without another word, flings her arms around his neck. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t wait for me,” she says, her voice quiet and trembling. 

Levi lets her remain this way, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, even though her scent is so intoxicating, somehow stronger in the nights he had not seen her. His hands are patient, holding her carefully at the waist. When she finally pulls away, it’s only to give him space to breathe. Her arms are still around his neck, but he doesn’t remove them. 

“You disappeared,” Levi tells her, but his tone is not accusatory. It’s gentle, understanding. “I thought you had abandoned me.” 

Petra shakes her head. Her bottom lip quivers and although she fights it, her mouth begins to set in a frown. She looks down as her amber eyes fill with tears. “They gave me medicine, laudanum, to help with my sleeping. But I didn’t want to take it,” she tells him as a tear rolls down her cheek. “I wasn’t able to dream when I took it.” 

“Then how was I able to see you tonight?” Levi asks as he wipes her tears from her face. 

“I didn’t take it tonight,” she confesses, looking down. Her eyelashes are damp with her tears and Levi thinks she has never looked more endearing. “I wanted to see you.” 

Levi’s heart hasn’t beat in centuries and yet her words bring an odd fluttering in his chest. 

“And after tonight?” asks the vampire. 

“Then I’d like to see you again,” Petra answers. 

His breath hitches in his throat and he has difficulty remembering how to breathe. 

Aside from the bags under her eyes, Petra looks healthier than she had the last time he had seen her. The blush of pink has started to return to her cheeks and her face isn’t as bony and angular. Her skin is almost the same peach tone it was when they had first met. Her eyes don’t shine in the same way, the light in them is dimmer now, but they’re no longer as sunken in as they were before. Even the marks on her neck have started to disappear. They can hardly be seen underneath the moonlight. She looks healthier. She looks better. And yet she still wants to be with him. 

He reaches for his hand only to be surprised when she flinches. The vampire tries to grab her by the wrist, but she clutches her hand to her chest. He holds out his hand, palm facing up. It’s a request, not a demand, that she show him. Reluctantly, she places her delicate hand in his, but her normally pale skin is marred with light purple. They’re old bruises that are fading away, but Levi can still make out the shape of them. It’s a hand, the hand of someone much larger than Petra. 

Levi runs his thumb gently over the lavender skin, his touch ghosting over her. “Who did this to you?” he asks quietly. 

She doesn’t answer. 

He asks another question. “Is this what you were trying to escape from?” 

Once again Petra remains silent. 

Levi tries again, his voice gentle and quiet as he asks, “Will you let me help you?” 

This time she looks at him, her lips slightly parted before she answers in a voice loud and clear, “ _Yes._ ”

* * *

Zeke slowly watches Petra regain her health. The color returns to her cheeks and she’s no longer skin and bones. Even the marks on her neck have begun to disappear like they had never been there at all. Although her physical condition improves, Zeke continues to wonder about her mental state. Every time he visits, Petra’s mouth is set in an unpleasant frown when a month ago he had only ever seen her smile. He comments on it sometimes, teasingly saying that such an expression doesn’t suit her at all, but this only displeases her further and the frown grows deeper. His visits with her have gotten shorter and shorter as well. Even when he insists on staying longer to keep her company because it must surely be dreary to stay inside all day without someone to speak to, she always ushers him out five minutes too soon, mumbling a poor excuse about how she’s feeling fatigued despite the fact that the dark circles under her eyes have disappeared days ago. 

He’s tried to speak to Petra’s father about it, but Mr. Ral ignores Zeke’s concerns. The man tells Zeke that Petra is better than she was before. His daughter goes about the house as usual, sometimes even humming under her breath as she does her knitting or copies down her father’s letters in her more legible handwriting. He does mention, however, that there are times that Petra gets a faraway look in her eyes, usually late at night, and she just stares out the window for the longest time without saying anything. When Zeke asks if Petra says anything strange, Mr. Ral only shakes his head, answering that Petra attributed her strange nighttime behaviors to the laudanum. 

Zeke thinks that Mr. Ral should be more attentive to his daughter, but he never says that out loud. The old man would probably only say that Zeke is too paranoid. It isn’t as if Zeke isn’t grateful for Petra’s recovery, but she doesn’t seem completely healed from her affliction. She’s not as sweet as she was before, her smile not as serene. The closest he has ever gotten to a smile was Petra’s lips set in a thin line, the corners hardly turned upward as she politely listened to a story he was telling. Mr. Ral might be convinced of his daughter’s recuperation, but Zeke isn’t. 

A part of him isn’t surprised when he one day arrives at the Ral house and, upon rapping his knuckles against the wood thrice, steps back when Mr. Ral haphazardly throws open the door only to tell Zeke that Petra has run away. He doesn’t feel any less nauseous at hearing the news. Mr. Ral, frantic and his hair in complete disarray, is still in his nightwear with only one slipper on, the other possibly lost when he was searching the house for his daughter just minutes ago. Zeke has to lead the old man to his living room, setting him down on the couch and requesting that a maid bring a glass of water while he calms Mr. Ral down. 

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Zeke asks, trying to remain as calm as possible even though his heart is thudding violently against his ribcage. He has one hand around Mr. Ral, his hand squeezing the old man’s shoulder comfortingly. “She can’t just have walked up and left on her own. Someone must have taken her.” 

“No, no, she’s run away,” Mr. Ral moans, head in his hands as he grieves for his lost daughter. He must have discovered her disappearance only hours before, but he looks as if he’s aged two decades since then, his anguished expression only accentuating the wrinkles on his face. “A note … she’s left me a note. She told me … she couldn’t stay here so she’s run away.” 

“A note? What note?” His head snaps up and he spots a letter that sits opened on the table. He snatches it, eyes scanning over it quickly only for him to realize that he can’t read any of the scribbles on it. It’s in shorthand. Almost angrily he shoves it into the old man’s hands. “What does it say?” 

Tears are running down the old man’s face now, snot dripping down his nose, and Mr. Ral quickly blows into a handkerchief and wipes at his tears so that he can read the note. “It’s just as I’ve told you,” Mr. Ral mumbles as he looks over his daughter’s writing. “She said she couldn’t bear to be here, that something was trapping her. She said she couldn’t bear to be here any longer.” His shoulders shake as he tries to keep in another heaving sob. “I don’t understand … Has she ever said anything about being unhappy to you, Zeke?” 

“Running away, whether she was unhappy or not, isn’t like her at all,” Zeke snaps. He grabs the letter from Mr. Ral and has half a mind to tear it to pieces. It’s nonsense either way. Taking a few deep breaths, Zeke asks Mr. Ral. “Has she been acting strange to you in these last few days, Mr. Ral? Have you noticed her behaving out of the ordinary?” 

Mr. Ral shakes his head miserably. “Nothing that I have not told you already,” the old man replies. He sniffles a few more times and blows into his handkerchief once more. After a long pause with only the sounds of Mr. Ral trying to fruitlessly stifle his sobs, the old man looks up and says quietly, “Well, a few nights ago my daughter would insist on sleeping with her windows open. I was afraid it would be too cold, but she insisted. She said that there would be a bird or something flying against her window and it troubled her too much to sleep thinking about how it might die if it flew into the glass.” 

“A bird?” Zeke repeats with a furrowed brow. It makes as much sense to him as the letter. “Did you know of any bird?” 

“Not at all,” Mr. Ral says. He thinks for a moment, a troubled frown still on his face. “I did think there was something flapping at the windows at night, but it looked too strange to be a bird. A bat, perhaps, but there aren’t any in these parts. I thought perhaps I had imagined it.” 

He shouldn’t blame Mr. Ral for giving him such useless information., but he wants to blame _someone_. It would make him feel better to have someone to blame, but Petra is gone without a trace and without any real reason to have run away in the first place. If he hadn’t gone mad before, he’s certain he’s about to now. 

“Anything else? Anything at all?” Zeke presses. 

“W-wolves? There were more wolves howling at night. They were like dying animals with how loud they were crying,” Mr. Ral tries, but this answer dissatisfies Zeke as well. 

“How about her sleeping habits?” Zeke asks, gripping Mr. Ral by the shoulders. It takes all his self-restraint not to shake the man because even that seems a more likely way to shake out useful information from him. “Has she been sleeping normally? Tossing and turning in her sleep? Sleepwalking? Anything abnormal? She’s been taking the laudanum as prescribed, correct?” 

Here, Mr. Ral falters, looking at the floor instead of answering. 

Unable to hold himself back any longer, he shakes Mr. Ral so roughly that the old man’s gaze goes out of focus. “Mr. Ral, the laudanum?” Zeke asks with gritted teeth. “Has she not been taking the laudanum?” 

“She said it was terrible, what the medicine did to her,” Mr. Ral whimples. His hands reach out to pry Zeke’s fingers from his shoulders, but the old man lacks the strength needed to release himself from the much younger man’s grip. “She was miserable taking it. If you only saw her … she looked as if she was a walking corpse even if she wasn’t nearly as thin and pale as she was before. It was only a few days ago that she stopped taking it but, oh, she looked so much more alive.” 

_What a foolish old man_ , Zeke thinks with a snarl as he shoves Mr. Ral onto the couch. He gets up, buttoning up his coat. He’s already hurrying out the door, not quite sure where he’s going but having a vague idea of what to do next. He ignores how Mr. Ral scurries after him and doesn’t answer when the old man asks him where he’s going. It’s only when he collects his hat and scarf, wrapping the fabric around his neck, that he pauses and looks down at the old man. 

“Did she say anything to you about the dreams she was having?” Zeke asks Mr. Ral. “About a man, perhaps? Someone small and thin with pale skin?” 

Mr. Ral’s eyebrows are knitted together as he tries to recall hearing the description. “She mentioned someone handsome in her dreams. She said he was lonely and … and kind,” he answers timidly. “She said he was … he was cold. She said his skin was like ice … but I never thought very much of it, and she always told me not to worry. They were pleasant dreams, she said.” 

That description alone is enough to set Zeke’s blood boiling. He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He can hear his heart thumping thunderously in his chest and his blood flowing vigorously through his veins. His vision turns scarlet as he throws open the door, leaving it to shut behind him with a _thud_ even as Mr. Ral calls to him. He stalks through the streets murderously, ignoring all of the curious looks that are thrown his way. He shoots glares at every stranger, wondering if they might possibly be the man Petra had talked about from her dreams. The men always look away before scuttling into a crowd or shop to avoid his gaze. 

Some people in town, people who have talked to Zeke on his better days, approach him. Not seeing the bloodthirst in his face, they ask him in jovial tones what he’s doing about wandering the streets. It only takes a withering glance from Zeke for them to shrink back in fear. He’s always civil, answering in a clipped voice that he’s searching for Petra. She’s gone for a walk and her father was asking for her because it had been awhile since she had left. They stammer useless answers about not seeing her. Some are kind enough to offer suggestions as to where she could have gone, but following their advice always proves fruitless. 

Zeke walks around the entire town and is no closer to finding a trace of Petra than when he began. He must have walked miles, his feet aching, but there’s no sign of her anywhere. It’s like she’s disappeared into thin air. 

As the sun begins to set, Zeke finds himself walking once more towards the church courtyard at the center of town. He had gone there three times today but had found nothing every time. Still, something tells him that Petra _must_ be there. He vaguely recalls her mentioning this place once when she was telling him about her dreams. It was always the same place, under the streetlamp beside the courtyard, that she said she’d meet the mysterious gentleman. Zeke can’t recall anything more. Under his breath, he curses himself for not remembering any further details even though he had always scolded Petra for speaking about her nonsensical dreams before. If only he had listened a bit more …

Zeke stops at the same streetlight that Petra had talked about, but he’s alone as he expected he would be. Petra isn’t here nor is the gentleman she spoke about. There are no other pedestrians, most people already at home or in a bar to seek shelter from the cold. A harsh wind blows past and Zeke hisses, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck. 

There is hardly any light now. Searching for Petra will prove even more difficult under the moonlight, but Zeke stubbornly refuses to return home without her. He sits down on a bench near the streetlight, his gloved hand stuffed into his pockets as he glowers at the empty space beneath the lamp. He’ll stay here all night if he has to. 

_She must return to me. There’s nowhere else for her to go_ , Zeke tells himself. As the night grows colder, his eyelids grow heavier until they finally close completely and he finds himself drifting to sleep. 

* * *

Zeke doesn’t know what time he wakes or if he’s even awake at all. His eyelids feel heavy as he struggles to open them. He finds himself on the bench in the courtyard, the dim streetlamps and the full moon the only sources of light in this dark night. He groans as he sits up, all his bones aching. His movements are slow, sluggish as if the air is made of molasses. He rubs at his face, trying to rid the sleep from his eyes. His vision blurs and he stares at the streetlamp in front of him, surprised to see a silhouette there where it wasn’t before. No, not one silhouette, but two. 

He wraps a hand around the back of the bench and pushes himself off before making his way towards the figures underneath the lamp. Zeke’s footsteps seem to echo across the cobblestone streets, but the figures don’t look up from where they are. They’re too preoccupied with each other, their limbs wrapped tightly around each other like vines. As Zeke approaches, he begins to recognize one of them. Her back is turned to him, but Zeke recognizes the nightgown. 

“Petra?” he says quietly at first and then, remembering his rage, he repeats himself once more, louder this time. “Petra!” 

Seeing his fiancée wound so tightly around another man ignites a dangerous fire in Zeke. He finds himself more awake than he was before and moves faster, arm reaching out to pull Petra away from the stranger, but he freezes when she turns around. 

The sight of Petra fills Zeke with an inexplicable horror. Her ginger hair shines so brightly in the moonlight that it’s almost golden. Her eyes, once a warm amber, are a cold blue that look up at him with contempt. The last time Zeke had seen her, Petra’s skin had almost returned to its original peachy tone, but it’s paper-white now although she’s nowhere near as emaciated as she was before. In fact, she looks healthier than she did when she was alive, her cheeks round and rosy, but it’s the sight of her lips that almost has Zeke’s knees buckling. Her mouth is smeared with blood, scarlet and dripping down her chin and staining the front of her gown. She walks towards him, opening her mouth to bare needle-like fangs, and it takes everything in Zeke not to let out a scream of terror. 

“P-Petra, it’s me,” he manages. He wants to stand his ground, but he instinctually takes a step back every time Petra moves towards him. “It’s Zeke!” 

“Zeke,” she repeats as she lazily wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. Behind her, her companion also approaches but he makes sure to stay in her shadow at all times. “For what purpose have you followed me here? Surely, you should have known that I would have preferred never to see you again.” Again with the contemptuous look in her eyes. Zeke despises it, but he’s too frightened to say anything about it. 

“We’re betrothed,” he tries to reason. His eyes flicker to man behind Petra, startled when the man looks at him with eyes that gleam a deadly scarlet. With a shaking hand, Zeke points at the stranger. “You belong to me and yet this man has taken you away from me. Has he no shame?” 

The man behind Petra snarls, revealing fangs that look similar to Petra’s, but Petra holds out a hand to restrain him. 

“He did not take me. I chose to leave by myself. And as for belonging to you-” Her eyes look him up and down and her gaze makes Zeke shiver- “I don’t anymore.” Slowly, she reaches for the golden band around her finger and tugs it off. Arm extended, she lets the ring fall to the ground. The sound of it clattering against the stones causes Zeke to flinch. 

Speechless, Zeke watches as she turns around, returning to her partner without so much as a second glance at her former lover. Zeke desperately stumbles forward, tripping over his hands and feet as he chases after the two. 

“Wait! Petra! You can’t leave!” he says. He loses his footing and falls to his knees, the fabric of his trousers ripping against the sharp cobblestone. He can feel the scrape on his knee already, but he pays it no mind. “He’s just a stranger! How can you be happy with someone like him?” 

At this, Petra turns. She has no pity in her eyes. “I have known him for far less time than I have known you, and yet he has given me more than you ever will.” 

Zeke is about to ask what she means by that but his eyes widen in terror when he sees her companion turn. On the man’s chest just above his heart is a blossom of red like a stain of blood. The sight of it makes Zeke feel nauseous and he can feel the bile build up at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down. He should run away from these strange and terrible things that he can’t comprehend, but he doesn’t. Instead, he struggles to stand on his feet and walks towards Petra even as he shakes. 

“I can give you more,” Zeke croaks. “Please. Come back with me and let us escape this nightmare. I’ll give you anything. I’ll give you anything you ask of me.” 

There’s a flicker of a flame in Petra’s eyes when she hears his words, her eyes turning from blue to red. “Anything?” she repeats as her scarlet lips curl into a voluptuous smile. She walks forward to meet him, her bare feet against the stone streets. She treads over the ring she had discarded earlier, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Anything I ask, you said?” 

Behind her, her partner watches with an unfathomable expression. 

Zeke nods hurriedly. He licks his lips. “Anything at all, my love. Just take it. I will give it to you willingly.” 

“How generous of you.” Petra’s smile glitters in the moonlight. “Then I shall take what I want without any hesitation.” 

A sigh of relief escapes his lips and he opens his arms to embrace his lover only to feel a sudden flash of pain in his chest. Warmth blooms in his chest and he looks down to see blood slowly staining his clothes. Something vile and metallic begins to bubble in his throat and he coughs, blood spewing from his mouth. He looks up to see Petra standing in front of him, that same voluptuous smile on her face and a bloody heart in her hand. _My heart_ , Zeke soon realizes. It’s still beating as it sits in her hand. 

“Why?” he asks even as he falls to his knees. He clutches at his chest, hands pressing against his open wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. He bleeds out onto the cobblestone, red staining the brown and gray stones. “Petra …?” 

Zeke doesn’t have to look up to know what she’s doing right now. He can hear her taking bite after bite of his heart, her lips smacking after every bite, leaving him feeling more and more hollow inside. 

His vision begins to blur and he feels his eyelids closing. Just as he’s about to lose consciousness, Zeke's head is lifted by gentle hands and he opens his eyes to see Petra, her mouth shining a ruby red. 

“Thank you for that, darling,” Petra says with a smile, her teeth so long and thin like little daggers. “It was delicious.” Her companion watches behind her with an amused smirk. Petra lets Zeke’s head drop from her hands, watching impassively as his skull bounces against the street. 

Zeke watches with blurred vision as Petra walks away arm-in-arm with her midnight companion until they disappear completely and his vision fades to black. 

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I found really interesting about Dracula was its portrayal of women and the female characters' thoughts on the rise of the "modern" woman. I wanted to touch on it in this fic with Petra because I find her to be such an interesting character. Hopefully, I was able to portray how complex she is not only through her words and actions, but also through how characters like her father and Levi talk about her versus how Zeke talks about her. 
> 
> There are some things I nicked from Dracula like the physical characteristics Levi has, the method of turning into a vampire (drinking from the master), and Stoker's liberal use of the word voluptuous. (I didn't use it as much as I would have liked, but I did use it!) 
> 
> I actually wrote this with PTG&ONF's cover of "[Kill This Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaySVM0oVho)" in mind. Hui's ballad cover is actually very good, but I think this one suits the vibe I was going for more with this fic. 
> 
> I'm not sure if I'm any good at writing period-type pieces but I do like writing them every now and again. I hope you guys enjoyed ^^ Thanks for reading!


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